The Masses are composed (I
delirious with song); a few
on motorcycles, blowing fully-
paid horns, worse for wear,
brushed up. Of
the women, those pregnant: thighs
muffling the laughter, taking streets, tearing
down our petty names on iron sheets.
won’t call, why did you ask for it?
There’s strength in numbers.
If you’re already happy, what’s
the point? Is to change it so
important you have to mark our heads
with hearts of ash, our ears
with tiny bites
our necks with the heat o
f you breathing? It’s
making us less than what
we should be, asking
for the deed to honor our parents
as if forgetful lovers eating our work
making little of our hands, the entire
time piling contempt upon our needs:
babies want more TV more than you
they will buy you medicine,
one day. Oh this
this cold sheet here, naked
and without you.
A shore lined with cupcakes, my
daughters fixed on pink & sprinkled, my
wedded finds the array indelicate
yet able to say something, what
with tiny waves at it all day. What
if the rare type arrives to embrace
criticism? If some genius came to
wheeze on the same deck, face to
face? (a) Avoid at all costs. Myself
I’d chew the stressed ‘fore the unstressed
then forget where the turtle
had buried her
eggs, which of my fold had squished her
way to murder. (b) Maintain balance.
* * *
Instead we arrive at stone.
People bare a face of What now
asking for house plans, these uneasy
by the vises, corners curling as a
breeze dances on worktable dust
as though on flags of countries
now defeated, once aquamarine
(yes, I’ll do). Are to rebuild here /
are to take what they can get.
An explorer and her monkey rides
the sub. White vans delivered us
to stand on three legs, take footage
tug at our collars from time to time.
Tat artists, you guys’re sweet
but all you are is one finger after another
(for richer / or in health) so, what
if this not-picture book tells you you’re
better off sick of these fumes?
Whoever among you has embraced the builder
take this hard hat.
Signed with solder, polished with spit.